White Flag
by Autumn C
Summary: She was one of the failures, a disabled letdown of the SPARTAN-III augmentations, resigned to an ONI desk job. But after Reach, the UNSC brass make plans for her that will take her into the heart of the Covenant. With a suicidal mission in her path, a court-martialed Spartan sentenced to protect her, and an extraordinary secret, she may have to join the Covenant to save humanity.
1. Hopeful's Hopeless

**Part I**

 **Chapter 1: Hopeful's Hopeless**

 **0730 HOURS, SEPTEMBER 10, 2552**

 **ABOARD UNSC** _ **HOPEFUL**_

The last time I was on this ship, the wrist and ankle restraints pinned my convulsing limbs to a table, the doctors and specialists yelled at one another in a hysterical panic, and the echoes of my screams shattered medicine vials and ripped through the surgical bay, through the labs, through the hallways. Seizure after seizure reduced my body to nothing but torn muscles and fractured bones. Blood vessels popped, eardrums burst, fingernails dug bloody holes into my palms. Sometimes I entertain the thought that I screamed so loudly, even the unforgiving vacuum of interstellar space permitted a few cries to be heard.

I've survived two planetary glassings and six years of military training that would kill most people in a week, but never was I closer to death than I was on this ship. Even now, a year and half later, I imagine that the _Hopeful_ recognizes me as the one that got away, and I eye the walls with a suspicion that they might just close in on me and finish the job.

Though, at the moment, I doubt this ship gives two craps about me.

"Hey, spook! _Get your head out of your ass and move out of the way_!"

I blink out of my reverie and spin to the side as doctors and nurses careen down the hall with a gurney. Anyone stupid enough to daydream in this chaos deserves to get run down, so I shake myself out of my memories, which are promptly replaced by the earsplitting din.

Hundreds of displaced civilians, from infants to the elderly, crowd this long hallway, jam-packed shoulder to shoulder. A woman to my left rocks through a coughing fit, a teen boy groans in pain as he presses a bloodstained rag to his arm, and EMTs shout vitals and instructions to one another as they push gurneys with crying patients. This hallway is just one of the station's countless arteries clotted with Reach refugees, and straggling evac ships just keep coming. Most people have been waiting hours, days, for the next available doctor. Even the _Hopeful_ , the legendary mobile hospital where medical miracles are an everyday occurrence, can't accommodate an entire planet's worth of refugees.

I check for any more stampeding EMTs before squeezing my way through the crowd. As I head further down the hall, a burly man holding an oxygen mask to his face spies the iconic ONI pyramid emblem on my shirt.

"Hey," he calls. "Hey, _phONI_ agent. Why didn't we have any warning, huh? What were you all _doing_ while the Covies were planning Reach—playing darts and knocking a few back? Naval _Intelligence_ my ass!"

He's not the only civilian asking for blood. These people are desperate for answers to impossible questions: Where are their loved ones? Why didn't the UNSC didn't personally escort each of the seven million citizens off the planet when the Covenant lay siege? Why wasn't there any forewarning? And: Who better to blame than the UNSC's Office of Naval Intelligence, the very department whose job it is to _know_?

I ignore the man and press on, past a mother with a screaming toddler in her arms, a doctor shouting desperate instructions to his staff, and a hothead teenager yelling at the military police trying to calm him.

I cringe against the noise, my temples aching.

But as deafening as the moans and cries and accusations are, they're not what make me press my fingers to my ears. The loudest sound in this hallway, an almost tangible sound that reverberates in my chest, is misery. The pain of the refugees' plasma burns doesn't compare to the pain of losing their home, their planet, their loved ones. It's a cacophony of mourning, desperation, confusion, and rage that claws at my eardrums and leaves my brain ringing.

I wade through the agony and fear, before I finally reach the office door at the end of the hall. By now, my headache splits across my skull and black spots dot my vision. I press my palm to the biometric panel on the side of the door. As I wait for the retina imager to scan my face, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the opaque window in the door. Deep bags droop under my dull blue eyes, and my ash blonde hair, which could _really_ use some shampoo right about now, falls limply to my shoulders. My collared ONI shirt, wrinkled and untucked over my black slacks, has proven itself to be the beacon of ridicule it always is.

The panel beeps and the door slides open. I cough to clear the lump of fear from my throat, and then glance around the hallway one more time, wondering if the _Hopeful_ recognizes my voice, if it remembers the girl who filled these corridors with her screams a year and a half ago.

* * *

Dr. Skala waits with her needles, eager for the opportunity to jab something sharp in me.

This isn't _the_ room, but it's equally formidable. Scanners and other diagnostic hardware extend from the ceiling and walls like a mechanical forest. The lights glare off the stark white floor, and a wave of acrid disinfectant burns my nose.

But for all that, it's the doctor's thin smile that causes the hairs on my neck to rise. I've gone through this dozens of times, but I'm still not quite used to it.

She stands over a tray next to the exam table, filling syringes with my various prescriptions. I tower over her thin figure—though at 6'2", I tend to do that to most people—but her severe features certainly compensate for her stature. She has a wide forehead, sharp nose, and small, humorless mouth. Her gray hair is restrained into a no-nonsense bun at the back of her head. I always thought she looked like a disgruntled Moa, a native bird of Reach, and the dumbest animal alive.

Fortunately (for the most part), the similarity is only physical. Behind her beady black eyes is one of the most brilliant medical minds in the whole UNSC. Her research has paved the way for humanity's advancement in medicine, and the top-secret projects she has under her belt put the most decorated generals' CSVs to shame. For the SPARTAN-III program, she helped evaluate and recruit each candidate and tracked their medical progress throughout training. In passing she's often called the Halsey of the SPARTAN-IIIs, though I'm sure if either of them heard that there would be blood. Lots of it.

Dr. Skala was also the one who administered the drugs for the SPARTAN-III augmentation procedures, and, consequently, she's the one who saw some of my darkest hours, right here on this ship a year and a half ago.

But if anyone asks my opinion of her, I'm going with the Moa comparison.

"Skala," I greet, my tone friendly and suggestive. I'm always able to ignore the piercing pains in my head to banter with her. I kick off my shoes, roll onto the table, and link my fingers on top of my stomach. "Let's drop the pretense of these bi-monthly checkups and admit our love. When are we eloping?"

She doesn't even blink. "Your planet is glassed, the Covenant is on the brink of extinguishing your race, hundreds of people have been waiting hours for a doctor while you are privileged with high-priority treatment—and _still_ you carry on like a ten-year-old. What a _shining_ example of resilience you are."

That's low. But that's Skala. We have what I call a love/hate/hate/hate relationship. I love that she gives me meds that keep my brain from exploding into a million pieces. I hate everything else about her. Dr. Skala hates that she has to give me meds to keep my brain exploding into a million pieces, and she hates absolutely every inch of me. The name _Harper Coyne_ is nothing but a smudge on her otherwise immaculate record of my company's augmentations. The other 229 members of Gamma Company survived and passed their augmentations with flying colors, and the official record shows that all 330 of us are engaged in active duty. But that doesn't matter to Skala. She knows one of those candidates is a seizure-ridden washout and that "active duty" means working at tiny cubicle behind a mountain of paperwork in Section Three.

To add to her chagrin, I'm not only a failure, I'm an anomaly. The severity and frequency of my symptoms are unprecedented in the program. Usually disorders resulting from the procedures are diagnosable and treatable, but there's nothing but a big red question mark under my name. Skala doesn't _know_ why migraines and seizures continue to plague me. She has poked, prodded, scanned, injected, analyzed. She has called me into her office and ungodly hours in the night claiming she found the remedy, the solution—which never worked.

On paper she's a dedicated doctor working to help her patient. But this isn't about healing me. It isn't even about proving herself to the SPARTAN program anymore. It's about her own obsession with perfection. I'm a living, breathing, baffling mistake of hers, and the longer I remain a mystery, the more I get the impression that she'd rather just push me out the station door for a one-way spacewalk.

I drum my fingers on my stomach as I watch her extract some pasty white medicine into a syringe.

Do I worry that she'll poison my meds and I'll die horribly asphyxiating on my own vomit? No. Despite her clashes with me, she governs herself with a rigid, career-centered ethics code. Dr. Debra Skala is a professional first, a human second.

Do I worry that she'll continue to undermine my position in ONI with her behind-the-back rumors of my ineptitude to restrict me to the lower ranks of Section Three and keep my name and history under the radar so no one realizes that Gamma Company really _wasn't_ the perfect company and the single washed-out Spartan is a twitching mess of a girl laboring a seventy-hour workweek and it's all thanks to Dr. Debra Skala?

Yes. Professional first.

She turns to one of the diagnostic screens on the wall and punches in a code. A scanner in the ceiling hums to life, and a holographic rendering of my brain projects directly above the real deal.

"So. What's on the menu today?" I ask. "Fried insular cortex? Generalized anxiety disorder with an extra-large side of schizophrenia?"

She squints at the image and the data flickering to the side. "As always, your cortisol levels are unrealistically high."

The stress hormone. "No kidding? Gosh, just a shot in the dark here, but you don't think it has anything to do with being forced to come back to _this ship?_ To the one place I vowed never to return?"

I can almost see the steam shooting from her ears. "Not to worry," she says sarcastically. She yanks the collar of my shirt down, brushes my neck once with antiseptic, and jams a needle in carelessly. The first time this happened, over a year ago, I reflexively backhanded her and knocked her unconscious. Now, I'm contemplating what I'll have for lunch.

The image of my brain glows a faint red. However the medicine affected it, Skala isn't pleased. She shakes her head, pulls out her data pad, and starts her standard bi-monthly interrogation.

"Fainting spells?

"Six."

"Migraines?"

"Twelve. Thirteen currently in progress."

"Bloody noses?"

"Ten."

"Seizures?"

This number is supposed to be fewer than five in order for me to meet the special regulations established for my employment in ONI. "Three," I say loftily. It's really eight—almost nine in the hallway just now.

She steps closer to the table to glare down at me square in the eye, but doesn't say anything. According to my contract, I'm to make these reports under oath, and who is she to argue with contract?

"Severity?"

A few were minor, everyday seizures—a little passing out here, a little uncontrollable convulsion there. Always with a side of drooling.

There were a couple bad ones, though. The ones that make Skala tear her hair out in frustration. The ones that have brought neuroscientists from far and wide to have a look at my noggin, only to end up scratching their own in bewilderment. I've been monitored and hooked up to the most state-of-the-art machines during these bad episodes, but even after all this time, no one can explain what happens in my brain during those seizures. Not even me.

I stare up at the image of the brain. It revolves slowly, and I imagine it cackling at me.

I start to answer Skala with another lie, but the announcement display near the door buzzes and flickers to life.

The screen shows a UNSC internal news report from the cruiser _Trident_ , where a large briefing room has been reorganized into a courtroom.

Skala slams down her data pad. "These infernal broadcasts. Who _cares_ about this trial anymore?"

The camera focuses on a murderous-looking Spartan-III shackled to a chair. The scowling face of Dom-A258 has been plastered on every UNSC announcement screen for two weeks. Even out of his Mjolnir armor in standard naval uniform, he stands at 6'10" and looks capable of ripping apart with his bare hands every prosecutor, juror, and spectator in the room. His dark hair is cut short, though slightly longer than regulation as he hasn't been in the field for weeks, and his eyes are hooded under that furrowed brow. In the ongoing broadcast of the trial, I don't think I've seen him move at all yet.

The scrolling marquee at the bottom of the screen summarizes: _Dom-258 awaits verdict after being court-martialed for willful insubordination, among other charges, resulting in the catastrophic obliteration of_ _Áldozat_ _in Meleg Territory and the deaths of thousands of civilians. He faces imprisonment and possible execution._

I have to applaud my fellow spooks in Section Two, ONI's publicity hub, for this masterfully devious stunt of a trial. Propagating a Spartan's failure is absolutely unthinkable in the UNSC. Morale is priority. Soldiers hear about Spartan _successes_ only. _I'm_ living proof of that.

But with Reach, the "unsinkable" military stronghold, wiped off the map, morale can't get any lower. Evidently Section Two agreed when they chose to internally broadcast this trial to UNSC forces. I think about the civilians in the hallway, desperate for someone to blame. No doubt the same sentiments are spreading like a plague through the military forces as well. Section Two already has the shambles of public faith to worry about; they don't need restless soldiers to start questioning orders.

Having something, _someone_ to blame would encourage unity against a common foe, and what better what to shift the fault from the UNSC brass than to publicly destroy the reputation of an insubordinate soldier, whose refusal to obey a lawful command from his superior resulted in the decimation of a city and thousands of lives lost?

The message is clear: It wasn't the higher-ups who failed Reach. It was the foot soldiers who didn't follow orders.

I study Dom-A258. To be on top-priority missions on Reach, he must've been the cream of the Alpha Company crop. The fall from superhuman Covenant-killing machine to convicted felon on death row is almost as tragic as the fall of Reach itself.

The shot switches to the mass of soldiers in the courtroom, waiting for the verdict, and I answer Skala's question: "Looks like a lot of people care."

She waves a needle dismissively. "You know as well as I do that this is just drummed up Section Two nonsense. This isn't an actual _case._ That Spartan is nothing more than a scapegoat. A cautionary tale for the uniforms."

"A wasted opportunity to be something better than what you are," I add absentmindedly, before pulling my eyes from the convicted Spartan. Well, that was probably an overshare.

She narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything, the door opens, and an ONI agent, dressed to the nines in armor, hurries in and stands at attention.

"Ma'am. Apologies for the interruption," he pants, before Skala can screech at him. "I have urgent orders to escort you to an emergency briefing."

Skala puffs up indignantly and brandishes a syringe. "Surely it can wait. I do have many patients to see, if that wasn't obvious enough."

"Yes, ma'm. But I'm afraid this cannot wait. And, I'm sorry for the confusion, but I meant both you _and_ Miss Coyne."

"Whoa, hold on," I say, ignoring Skala's scandalized look. I swing my legs off the table and straighten my shirt. "Who wants us where now?"

"Ma'am, as I said—"

"Answer me."

He pauses only for a moment to look around the room, before tightens his lips impatiently and says, "Admiral Parangosky is requesting both of you report to _Point of No Return_ immediately."

If there were anyone else in the vicinity, Skala and I would be required by law to throw our hands in the air and shout, _"Whatever are you talking about, agent? I have absolutely no idea what you mean! Point of no what? Sorry, perhaps you should have a doctor take a look at_ your _brain. Bye now!"_

Instead, the energy in the room shifts instantaneously. Skala and I, sudden allies against massive confusion, share an incredulous glance. The elusive, omniscient Commander-in-Chief of the Office of Naval Intelligence, the most feared and respected name in the entire UNSC, wants to meet with us on the fleet's only stealth cruiser that officially, on paper, does not exist.

Skala composes herself quicker and looks down at the tray of syringes. "Well then. I'm sure it's in our best interests to leave straight away, so your meds will have to wait. After all," she adds, "you've had just three seizures in the past two weeks." She arches her eyebrows, daring me to admit the truth.

I shrug. "Yep. Just three." And I slip on my shoes and follow the ONI agent out the door.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading!_

 _I started brewing this story after I read Ghosts of Onyx and became enamored with the SPARTAN-III program. I also wanted to write a story concurrent with the events of the original Halo trilogy, on the outskirts of what we see with Master Chief. I have a lot mapped out for this story and it will be a big project for me, so feedback of any kind is appreciated! Thanks!_


	2. Until Proven Innocent

**Chapter 2: Until Proven Innocent**

 **0745 HOURS, SEPTEMBER 10, 2552**

 **ABOARD UNSC** _ **TRIDENT**_

"… _pursuant to JAG 3411-SR, Article 29 Section 3-C of the martial statutes of the United Nations Space Command…"_

He waits, as he has every day for the past two weeks, stuck in this godforsaken chair in this godforsaken courtroom on this godforsaken ship. The difference now, though, is that this is the _last_ _time_. After today, he won't have to wait any longer. He finally sees the light at the end of the tunnel.

Of course, the light is public execution and the tunnel is complete dissolution of his rank, reputation, and military record as though he never existed. But that's beside the point.

"… _through neglect and culpable inefficiency…"_

His nose itches, and he strains against the titanium cuffs that pin his wrists and ankles to the chair. He scrunches his face and tries to scratch with his upper lip.

"… _his willful dereliction of duty…"_

The court-martial officer reading the summary sits at the head of a massive crescent-shaped desk that arches like scorpion pincers in front of his solitary chair. On either side sit the dozen military prosecutors who have dedicated the past two weeks of their lives to ending his own. Behind them, a thirty-foot-tall window rises to the ceiling with nothing but black, star-spotted space outside. He can't help staring over their heads into the void, as though the deep black itself is judging him as well.

"… _unwarranted and excessive military and civilian loss…"_

An angry buzz behind him. The eyes of hundreds of soldiers—Navy, Army, Marine alike—burn into his back. In the alcoves to his right, swarms of ONI reporters shake their heads and sharpen the focus on their cameras.

He yawns and tilts his head left and right, cracking the rusty joints in his neck. He wonders what they all expected. Maybe they thought a sentence would magically erase the atrocity of his crime. Maybe they thought watching the failures of another would absolve them of their own. Or maybe they just wanted to see blood, to see him strung up and left to die.

Be it a lethal jab from a syringe or a kick out the _Trident's_ huge window, his end is imminent.

But at least he won't have to _wait_ anymore.

The officer finishes the summary and looks up from the data pad, almost bored. "Dom-258," he drawls. "For the _final_ time, and for the official record, do you deny any of the seven thousand aforementioned counts of negligent manslaughter?"

The room holds its collective breath, but his chest rises and falls steadily. Ready to give the answer all of them so desperately want. Ready to end this.

But before he can speak, a door in the back opens, and an MP scurries in, pale and shaky. Everyone watches, stunned, as he half sprints to the horseshoe desk and whispers urgently to one of the prosecutors, whose eyes widen in shock. Without a word of explanation he jumps to his feet and motions to the rest at the desk, and after a second's hesitation they all rise and follow the MP back to the door.

Dom throws his head back on his chair and almost yells in fury. _More_ discussing. _More_ deliberating. _More waiting._

But half a dozen MPs flow into the room and start ushering everyone else out as well. Dom's brow furrows, and he twists in his chair as confused soldiers and irritated reporters are herded out the door. Are they just moving court somewhere else? He waits for someone to unlock his restraints and nudge him with the barrel of a rifle, but not one of the officers glance his way. Thirty seconds ago every person in this room couldn't take their eyes off him. Now they can't seem to leave fast enough.

Slowly the room empties, and Dom is left completely alone, still manacled to the chair.

"So…not guilty, then?" he says. His voice echoes to the high ceiling.

 _Maybe they really_ are _going to open the window and flush me out_ , he muses. A second later the door opens again—and Dom suddenly wishes that were true.

Fleet Admiral and newly appointed head of the UNSC Sir Terrence Hood, Senior Chief Petty Officer Franklin Mendez, and Lieutenant Kurt Ambrose file through the door.

Dom's breath catches in his chest. After two weeks of staring at pimply MPs, watching the leader of the UNSC and the two most influential men in the SPARTAN-III program stroll into the room sends his adrenaline skyrocketing to battlefield levels. His chest aches, his fingertips tingle with energy—even his nose seems to be so shocked that it stops itching. Every muscle screams at him to jump to his feet and snap to attention.

Mendez takes a seat at the horseshoe desk, to Dom's left. Just one look at the legendary drill instructor and Dom is back on Onyx years ago, at Camp Currahee with orders to follow and training exercises to complete. Deep crow's feet frame Mendez's eyes and his hair is predominantly silver now, but his stony gaze demands as much respect and discipline as it did all those years ago.

Lord Hood settles at the apex of the desk. The rows of ribbons and medals decorating his dress uniform glint proudly as he laces his fingers together and appraises Dom from head to toe.

And Lieutenant Kurt Ambrose. Even out of his armor, the forty-year-old Spartan-II stands over seven feet tall. It's been over a decade since Dom last saw him, but his LT, aside from an extra line or two on his face, looks the same as Dom remembers, with short brown hair and eerily perceptive hazel eyes. He gives Dom a small smile and a nod, just like he did when Dom first arrived on Onyx, freshly orphaned, desperate for a leader, ready to follow whatever order his new lieutenant gave him. Dom spies the golden oak leaf insignia on Kurt's chest and mentally corrects himself: Kurt Ambrose is now a lieutenant _commander_.

Dom can take dozens of prosecutors. He can take Lord Hood, and hell, he can even take Chief Mendez. But for the first time since he left Reach, he's nervous. If anyone can suss out the truth, the _real_ reason why he's sitting in this chair, it's Lieutenant Commander Ambrose.

Lord Hood clears his throat. "Excuse the rather dramatic entrance, Spartan. We were trying to catch the trial before it ended."

Dom's voice is crisper now than it has been in weeks. "The apology is mine, sir. Please do not doubt I would be on my feet in a salute if I weren't…in my current predicament." He fidgets under his metal cuffs.

Mendez crosses his arms. "And why _wouldn't_ we doubt that, 258? Insubordination is the very reason you're in your _predicament_ , isn't it?"

"Sir. Yes, sir."

Lord Hood peruses the data pad the court-martial officer left on the desk. "I suppose only a Spartan would call seven thousand counts of negligent manslaughter a 'predicament.'" He sighs and looks at Dom sternly. "Rest assured, we aren't here to belabor the details of this case any further. I think the JAG Corps—and, I suspect, _ONI_ —has gotten their point across with their 'guilty until proven innocent' crusade. Don't misunderstand me, of course—your right to a proper trial was appropriately forfeited by the nature of your crime." He glances at Mendez and Kurt. "Even so, several of us couldn't help but notice that you've been staunchly disinclined to offer any evidence in defense of yourself. Nor have you provided any details to clarify your, if I may, _suspiciously dubious_ field report. It struck us as rather peculiar for a Spartan in your position.

"So the first reason we're here, 258, is to give you this final opportunity to reveal any details about the incident that you may have withheld during the trial, for whatever reason. We'll briefly walk through the incident, and you're hereby _ordered_ to recount the complete and utter truth—and that means no lies by omission, either. Do you understand, Spartan?"

Dom swallows and clenches his fists. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Now. On August 25th in the city of Áldozat, you gained control of a class-five Covenant antimatter explosive. You prevented the Covenant from using it and obtained the detonation codes."

"Correct, sir."

"Then you reported to HQ that _you_ planned to detonate the bomb."

"Yes, sir."

"The commanding officer, with compelling rationale, ordered you _not_ to detonate."

"Yes."

"But you did anyway."

"Yes."

Mendez's cheeks redden. "I want to hear it straight, Spartan, because what I've heard these past two weeks just can't be true, and I'm tired of being served information after ONI's had their fingers all in it. So— _why._ Why did you disobey this order?"

Dom wishes he could pinch the bridge of his nose and try to squeeze some of this exhaustion away. As quickly as it came, his adrenaline withers and evaporates completely, leaving the all-too-familiar stale crust of resignation. He remembers that at the end of the day, no matter how high he regards these men, they are just _men._ No different from the prosecutors, or the judges, or the soldiers. Same questions. Same answers. He's had two weeks of rehearsal, and not even Chief Petty Officer Mendez can intimidate him enough to forget his self-written script now.

"Sir. As I've reported, a civilian girl was captured by a Covenant ground team. I was afraid she might compromise the locations of other colonies, including Earth, and other vital UNSC intelligence."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kurt squint at the ceiling doubtfully.

"I'll remind you, Spartan," warns Hood, "that I said no lies."

"Yes, sir. This is the truth."

Mendez puts his hands on the desk, palms facing each other, as though mapping the story and trying to keep it from spinning off the table. "How old was this girl? Did you have any evidence to suggest she was particularly _important_? Was she…related to military personnel, perhaps?"

Dom pauses. "She was maybe twelve or thirteen. And I don't know, sir."

Hood and Mendez share an exasperated look.

"Do twelve-year-old civilian girls make it a habit of knowing Earth's interstellar coordinates and 'vital UNSC intelligence'?" says Mendez through clenched teeth.

"Sir. It was unusual that the Covenant captured instead of killed her, and we know the Covenant do not typically take prisoners unless there is something to gain. I presumed that they intended to extract some kind of information from her, so I did the only thing I could at the time to prevent that from happening—which meant detonating the bomb."

"And in addition to the thousands of civilian casualties," finishes Hood, "dozens of Marine ground squads, ODST reinforcements— _and the three other Spartans in your own fireteam_ —were lost."

"That's correct, sir," Dom deadpans.

The look on Mendez's face reminds Dom of when he forgot to polish his boots or when he slept in and missed morning formation. "Spartans can make mistakes, I'll admit it. But this…this was just complete senselessness. It is the worst judgment call I've ever seen from a Spartan," says Mendez.

It's been simple, _boring_ even, taking abuse from puffed-up prosecutors and ravenous reporters and scandalized soldiers for the last two weeks. Though they stripped him of his Mjolnir and fired insults and accusations at him, his mental armor remained intact and deflected all attacks. But condemnation from Mendez, a man who dedicated his life turning Dom into a Spartan, a man who became like a terrifying but trustworthy father figure, burns deep and threatens to melt all his barriers. He takes a breath and considers Mendez's point of view. A faulty Spartan implies faulty training. He knows that before anything personal, Mendez is just trying to investigate the root problem, as a mechanic would a sputtering Warthog. He's just trying to find the loose bolt, the frayed wire. He's just trying to figure out what really happened.

Which is something Dom can never tell him.

Kurt leans forward, and Dom fights the urge to recoil. He finally looks his lieutenant commander in the eye.

"During your campaign in Áldozat, did your fireteam happen across any sensitive information? Of any nature?" asks Kurt.

Dom licks his dry lips. "No, sir."

"Did your team leader, Eric-A103, order you to detonate the bomb?"

"No, sir."

"What was the last order he gave you before he died in the explosion?"

Trying to twist his words. To tangle his story. But Dom has been weaving this web for two weeks. "Sir. As I've reported, Eric was killed in battle _before_ the bomb." He puts just enough edge in his tone to indicate that Kurt can't trick him. "And I'm afraid I don't remember what his last order was, sir."

"Of course. And your other teammates?"

"They did die in the explosion."

"Did _you_ expect to die, Dom?"

Dom blinks. He thought the prosecution had exhausted every single question possible in their investigation. But this was a new one. One he could actually answer with the truth.

"Yes, sir. I did."

Kurt opens his mouth with another question, but stops, and instead scrutinizes Dom with that sharp gaze a few more seconds, clearly wrangling with a decision—before closing his mouth and leaning back. Dom stifles a sigh of relief.

A protracted silence descends from the high ceiling. Dom looks over Lord Hood's head at the black space out the window. He imagines the cold. The weightlessness. The _nothing._ He's ready to feel it all—or, rather, _not_ feel it. And he supposes, if he's going to be sentenced today, better to hear it from these three men than a contemptuous JAG corpsman.

But he _is_ tired of waiting.

"So," he says, testing the steadiness of his voice. "However you decide to do it, I respectfully request that you do it soon. I'd like to get it over with."

They allow even more seconds to tick by, and all exchange a glance before Lord Hood uncrosses his arms and says, "258, the UNSC is not going to simply _dispose_ of a Spartan, even when his actions were so severely negligent as yours. I hope you understand the gravity of our situation now that Reach is gone. I hope you understand that, despite our response efforts, we do in fact face complete annihilation. And I _need_ you to understand that every capable soldier must now be prepared to dedicate their entire worth to humanity's hard road ahead in the coming months. And for those with special training, that means undertaking special orders."

It certainly doesn't sound like a death sentence. And then it clicks, as he looks at all three of them collectively. These were the men usually putting him _on_ the battlefield, not taking him off. Hood is talking reentry in the field. And the way he's dancing with his words, it's dangerous.

"You're talking about a mission. An operation," Dom says.

Hood inclines his head. "A necessary one, make no mistake. If successful, your team could win the war single-handedly."

Strange. There was a time when these words would ignite in his chest a frenzied fire of determination. His heart would pulse with patriotism, his chest would swell with duty.

Now, though…his mind is as blank as the void outside.

He rotates his wrist under the metal cuffs. "Surely my credibility in the field is compromised. What soldiers would want to work with me after all this?"

"Your team comprises just you and another soldier, and to put it bluntly, the two of you don't really have choice regarding this assignment," Mendez says. He raises an eyebrow. "But Headhunters have been proven effective in the past."

Before Dom can ask what Headhunters are, Lord Hood adds, "It is the second reason we've come here today, because before we get into the details, we need to make something very clear to you. This is a two-man mission, but there _is_ a rank. Your _partner_ is the team leader, not you. After this Áldozat ordeal, we thought we should deliver this order personally. You are to follow your team member's command without question. Both of your lives, and in extension, the lives of millions, could depend on it, so there will _not_ be another incident of insubordination like Áldozat. Do you understand?"

"I understand," says Dom, suppressing the petulance in his tone.

"This isn't some walk-in-the-park operation, either," Mendez insists. "No Spartan-III has ever been tasked on something like this. So, keep that in mind." He grunts in approval, his eyes softening for the first time. "We wouldn't give this to just anybody."

Dom nods, but the words filter in and out without effect. If it's not a syringe, it's a mission. Either way, his death is still close, and the only difference now is he just has to _wait longer._

"Dom," says Kurt calmly. The lieutenant commander studies him, like he used to while evaluating Dom's training progress years ago. "I don't know what happened on Reach. But I know you. Whatever you did, you did because you thought it was right. You're no criminal. You're one of the best Spartans to come out of the program."

The words, once beacons of honor, ring hollow. It's not true. None of it. Maybe Kurt "knew" Dom at one point, but that person was left on Reach, in Áldozat _,_ dead and buried under concrete and glass.

Still, he nods to the LCDR. He manages a crooked smile and one more lie: "I'll do whatever is necessary to complete this mission, sir."

"Good. Now, to business," says Lord Hood, activating the holo-projector over the crescent desk and bringing up the image of a planet, an array of coordinates, and a UNSC profile of a young woman. "Let's first address the matter of your partner."

* * *

 _Thanks for reading!_

 _I tried to keep my (disturbingly) passionate love for Kurt-051 from showing. I think I toned it down to obvious-crush level. Hopefully.  
_

 _The Darkness Knight – I know, right? The Spartan-III program is the best. Thank you for the kind words! =)_


	3. Number Four

**Chapter 3: Number "Four"**

 **1110 HOURS, SEPTEMBER 10, 2552**

 **EN ROUTE TO UNSC** _ **POINT OF NO RETURN**_

It takes just three hours to reach _Point of No Return_ , but it's three hours crammed in a windowless transport ship across from a scowling Dr. Skala. The last time we spent this much time together she was busy injecting bio-mutating chemicals into my body. She glares at me now as if she would like nothing more than to do that again, but this time with undetectable lethal variants.

Or just straight up rat poison.

As much as I welcome a good cage match with my Moa-ish arch nemesis, I'm too distracted by the pounding in my right temple and the mystery behind Admiral Parangosky's summons. With Skala called as well, I suspect it has to do with my condition. A ray of hope tickles my chest. Did they make a breakthrough in a new treatment? Are they bringing Skala just to rub it in her face?

As if disgusted at the thought of a cure, the pain rakes in earnest against my skull, and my vision blurs for a moment. Despite my eagerness to leave the _Hopeful_ as quickly as possible, I wish we had finished in Skala's office. It's been a while since I've gone this long without meds.

By the time we dock on _Return,_ I'm a sweaty, trembling mess. Security officers escort us out of the terminal and through a stark hallway with a single door at the end. Biometric panels blink aggressively at us, and we place our hands on the panels and follow the officers through another set of corridors. After passing a retina scan at the next door—a DNA cheek swab at the next—a voice test at the next—and a personal information quiz at the elevator, we reach a darkened catwalk, where the shadows are so thick I can hardly see ten feet in front of me. At the end is a curved white wall, and the officers stop us in front of it.

"Wait here," one orders, and they leave the way we came and close the enormous door behind them. The lock spins and drops with a _thunk_ like a vault, leaving us alone on the eerily muted catwalk.

Skala rounds on me and lets loose.

"What the _hell_ is going on, Harper? What are we doing here?" Her words are swallowed by the inky black chasm around us.

I scoff and I cross my arms, but it's more to hide my shaking hands. "What are we doing here? In this secret room, on this secret ship, in the middle of a—let's go crazy— _secret_ location? I'm gonna go on a limb and say _it's a_ _secret_. I don't _know_."

" _Think_. Obviously this is about you. You did something, or said something…"

"Oh, I remember now. _Dear Admiral Parangosky. Help, my doctor keeps poking me with needles, and I think she's trying to kill me. Sincerely, Harper._ "

"I never tried to _kill_ y—"

The curved white wall—at least, I thought it was a wall—slides open, revealing a tall, severe-looking man with sharp eyes under a receding hairline. His uniform glints with medals and bears the eagle insignia of an Army colonel.

Years of Spartan training, dormant during my time working behind a desk, arouse at once, and even though I'm not technically a soldier anymore, his high rank overwhelms me. I snap to attention and salute him. "Sir."

The colonel barely looks at me and waves us in.

My eyes struggle to adjust to the round room, at least fifteen feet in diameter with white concave walls. A black oval conference table dominates the center of the room, like the slit of a pupil within an eye. At the center of the table sits Admiral Parangosky, who, despite her diminutive and withered figure, commands the immediate attention of everyone in the room. Her claw-like hands rest on top of a data tablet, and she dissects me with a cold stare that makes me feel like a wobbly gazelle in front of a hungry lioness.

"Please sit, both of you," she says. "I suspect you do not need an introduction, but I am Admiral Margaret Parangosky. This is Colonel James Ackerson."

I take the seat directly across, flipping my hair from my face nonchalantly, like I frequent top-secret stealth ships all the time. I push my headache aside and try to tap into Parangosky's emotions, but it's hard to read anything over Skala's anxious panting and hammering heartbeat. She sits next to me and wrings her hands.

My gaze slides to the colonel. So _this_ is James Ackerson. The "founder" of the SPARTAN-III program. A man who, for an Army colonel, has a disproportionate amount of pull within ONI. A man whose name either stirs intimidated respect or pure loathing within the UNSC. A man who, even though we've never met, I always presumed hates me and my stain on his perfect Gamma Company.

But at the moment, his iron expression tells me nothing.

Parangosky thumbs her tablet and it glows with data. "We will try to make this brief. We don't want to deprive the _Hopeful_ of helpful hands longer than we have to. I'd like to start with a few simple questions." Her cold eyes bore into mine. "First, tell me your name."

"Harper Coyne."

She frowns, as though that was the wrong answer. "Your _tag_."

I blink in surprise. "Uh. 124. Harper-G124, ma'am." The numbers feel strange on my tongue. I can't remember the last time I said my Spartan ID out loud.

"Your age?" asks Parangosky.

"Seventeen, ma'am."

Another doubtful pause. She raises her thin eyebrows. "You look quite a bit older than seventeen."

 _This_ speechon the other hand is well rehearsed, and usually ends with _"Does my_ fist _look older than seventeen?"_ But that's probably not the way to go here, and for the first time, I can actually tell the truth.

"Ma'am. My company was given growth hormones during our training, even before the augmentation procedures. And I was older than most of the recruits to begin with, so the augmentation procedure was sort of like…second puberty." I feel like a first-grader explaining the alphabet to my teacher; _surely_ she knows all of this? The pain in my head flares, and I ignore it and take a stab at a smile. "Helps at the pubs, when the bartender thinks I'm mid-twenties."

The joke evaporates as soon as it leaves my mouth. Parangosky glances, almost lazily, at the data pad in front of her. "Of course. And after your failed augmentation last February, your services were rerouted in ONI. What is it you do now?"

My headache pauses long enough for me to take a step back and weigh this conversation. What's my name? How old am I? Where do I work? _I just won the Galactic Cup, what am I going to do next?_ These answers are two clicks away on any generic ONI personnel database. By now I expected to be celebrating the news of a cure for my condition. But the most powerful person in the UNSC has brought me to the most secretive ship in the fleet—to _small talk?_

A tidal wave of anger washes over the confusion, and my migraine resumes in full force. She knows _damn well_ what I do for ONI. Every day, I sit behind a desk in the darkest corner of the deepest basement in the most remote base on Reach. I pore over trivial Section Three documents until my eyes bleed (and with my continued seizures, I mean that almost literally). I file report after report from active officers in the field. I drown in data entry. I shake the vending machine that eats my credit to get my damn cheese puffs. I know I have Skala—and, I suspect, Colonel Ackerson—to thank for my segregated employment. Just brush the failed recruit under the rug, and place Gamma Company on the pedestal as the perfect SPARTAN-III company.

And I'm sure Parangosky knows all of this, so why the hell is she asking?

I grit my teeth and sit a little straighter. Yes, I've been chained to a desk for a year, and maybe the seclusion gave me some separation anxiety and a disturbing habit of talking to myself, but it also gave me a stubborn sense of autonomy. Suddenly, I don't give a damn that Admiral Parangosky is my significant superior. If she's going to be cagey now, then I will too.

"I'm a Beta-5 logistics admin," I answer shortly, offering no elaboration. I'm pretty sure that's verbatim from my personnel record staring Parangosky in the face.

Ackerson does nothing to hide his eye roll, and I'm not sure if it's my imagination but I think Parangosky resists a smirk. Without missing a beat she says, "Next I'd like to review your Spartan training. During your six years on Onyx, you were the leader of one of the top teams in the program."

This time it's my heart, not my head, that clenches painfully.

"Yes. In fact," adds Ackerson with a sour smile, "Lieutenant Commander Ambrose named you as the 'pinnacle' of the SPARTAN-III program. He said you were likely the one who would lead the rest of the company."

My voice is stuck in the back of my throat, just like the memories of Onyx are stuck in the shadows of my mind—exactly where I want them to stay.

It's rude not to acknowledge anything an officer says, but I can't even muster up a polite _"Yes, sir."_ Parangosky and Ackerson gaze at me presumptuously, and I consider instead: _"Can you just get to the goddamn point and stop telling me crap I already know?"_ Yes, that should go over well.

"Have you seen your teammates or any others from your company since the augmentation procedures?" asks Parangosky.

"No. I haven't seen any of them."

I catch a slight whiff of sympathy from her, but it evaporates just as quickly. She purses her lips. "Dr. Skala. In the wake of her unsuccessful augmentation, did G124 ever exhibit an indifferent or resentful attitude toward the SPARTAN program? Even when she was reassigned to a menial administrative position?"

Skala flushes, which is evidence enough that she forced me into that job, and through gritted teeth replies, "Not that I recall, ma'am. Harper has always—"

"Use her ID."

"G124 has always shown dedication to the program, despite her…issues." Skala looks like she swallowed a lemon, like it physically pains her to compliment me.

Parangosky consults the data pad. "And did G124 ever—"

Without warning, red-hot pain slices across my forehead, like a bolt of lightning from temple to temple. I gasp and clap a hand to my head.

Everyone looks at me.

"Do you need a glass of water, 124?" asks Parangosky.

I cringe as the aftershocks crackle across my skull and down the back of my neck. Not a good sign at all. Why, why, _why_ didn't I insist Skala finish up with the meds before we left the _Hopeful_?

"No, ma'am. Just a…small headache." I hide my trembling hands under the table.

She scrolls to the next page on her data pad. "On cue, it seems, as your condition is the next topic of this discussion."

My migraine thrums like a purring cougar, happy to be in the spotlight now. I suppress a groan of pain.

"First," Parangosky says impatiently, "so we are on the same page, everyone in this room is aware of the illegal neural mutagens used in Gamma Company's augmentations. Colonel Ackerson"—she nods to him brusquely—"and Lieutenant Commander Ambrose have disclosed their decision and their reasons to authorize these drugs. I want it understood that we are not here to discuss their repercussions."

I know this. Skala knows this. The questions surrounding my condition were never _what_ or _when_. The anatomical enhancements—bone ossification drugs and muscle protein complexes—worked as intended. But the minute the neural-altering agents slithered into my brain, the dams broke, and bloody noses and debilitating seizures poured out. With dozens of MRIs and CAT scans yielding no answers, it's the _why_ and the _how_ that wrinkled Skala's face and grayed her hair.

I know about the drugs and how illegal they were—Lieutenant Commander Ambrose himself admitted his involvement to my face—but I'm surprised that the secret broke through our circle and Skala's team of tight-lipped med techs in Project CHRYSANTHEMUM. But Parangosky shrugs. I guess morally questionable decisions don't faze her at all these days, no matter how illegal.

Colonel Ackerson looks as smug as can be. He unlocks his own data pad and types something on the screen's keyboard. His breath is even, his heartbeat steady. Parangosky's "repercussions" were likely nothing but a slap on the wrist. My head pounds in indignation.

"Dr. Skala," Parangosky says, "without the extensive medical jargon, tell me about the side effects of G124's augmentation. Clearly," she adds, looking me over, "it wasn't a complete failure."

"Well, no," says Skala. "Harp—G124's body accepted most of the physiological enhancements. On her good days, she is as strong and fast as any other Spartan-III. But with the neural mutagen…" She glances at me as if I grew an extra head, before shaking her own in revulsion.

"It was supposed to enhance aggression?" asks Parangosky, half turning to Ackerson.

He nods. "And it was supposed to make them near impervious to pain."

"It _did_ enhance aggression and make them impervious to pain," says Skala, borderline petulant. "It worked perfectly for 329 of the 330 candidates. But for _whatever_ reason—" Whoops. Couldn't quite hide the bitterness that time. "—the drug targeted G124's anterior insular cortex instead of the frontal lobe, despite countless doses of cyclodexione and miso-olanzapine—"

"I said _omit_ the medical jargon," Parangosky warns.

Skala nods in apology, but her eyes still burn. "In other words, it targeted the _wrong part of her brain_. The immediate results were incapacitating seizures, inexplicable bloody noses, and frequent fainting spells."

Slowly, her voice fades into the background, and memories creep up from the shadows that stain my mind. I'm usually good at forcing these unwelcome thoughts back down into place, but they seem particularly emboldened after revisiting the _Hopeful_ earlier and listening to Skala's haunting recollection now. They snap through my mind like a photograph reel…Flat on my back, muscles on fire, tears streaming down my face into my ears…Skala juggling syringes and shrieking different theories and solutions to the perplexed med team…Lieutenant Commander Ambrose, holding my hand, hazel eyes filled with grief as he tells me heauthorized the drugs that caused all this…

"Strangely enough…" says Skala, pulling me out of my trance. She gazes at me like an art critic would a painting. "The mutagens also gave 124 an impossibly high sense of awareness of the biological states of others. Physiological hyper-intuition, biological empathy, electromagnetic acuity—we've made up several names for it. Essentially, G124 is able to gauge the heart rate of another person and make inferences—often correct—on what their mental status is. Sometimes she even predicts what their next move will be."

Ackerson raises an eyebrow and smirks at me. "Interesting. What am I thinking right now?"

I clench my jaw, which only aggravates my headache further. I keep my tone polite but even. "I'm empathic, sir, not psychic. I can't _read minds,_ as it were."

"Nevertheless, it sounds useful," says Parangosky. I see the cogs spinning behind those calculating eyes.

"Sure, if you're looking for a personal polygraph."

"It's useful to an extent," clarifies Skala, before Parangosky can slice my throat with her claws. "She takes daily meds for the slighter symptoms. We also administer a regimen of potent counteragents that depress her receptors. Without them, she becomes overstimulated to the point where her brain can't handle the information and simply shuts down—but not before a dramatic display of debilitating headaches and violent seizures."

An excruciating sizzle of pain in my skull, as though it's flattered. My fingertips rattle against my head as I try to physically press the migraine back.

"How often does she need the counteragents?" asks Parangosky.

"Twice a month."

"And can they be self-administered?"

"Excuse me?"

The question slips out of my mouth before I can tack on a "ma'am" at the end.

But I'm fed up now. I'm done with this bewildering line of questioning, tired of being talked about like I'm not sitting _right here_. My head is splitting in two, my vision is swimming, my stomach is roiling with nausea.

Skala clears her throat in the awkward silence. "Well, yes, they can. If necessary."

Their voices fade again, like the volume of the whole room has lowered. And I feel it now…that familiar tip over the edge of the cliff, where the pain pulls me right over into the abyss. My voice is caught, already lost. I put a trembling hand on Skala's arm, trying to warn her—and just before my vision tunnels completely I see her eyes widen in recognition and panic.

"No. _No._ "

But it's too late—the seizure grabs me and pulls me out of reality.

These are the bad ones. The ones I've only had "three" of in the past two weeks. The ones that make Skala and every neuroscientist from every corner of the galaxy gape at the brain scanners like drooling monkeys.

One of these scientists, while fuming over my dubious seizure tests, mockingly called it a "black hole" seizure, before tossing my scan results in the air and dismissing me as just another lost-cause Spartan washout. But his insult was startlingly accurate. In a blinding burst of pain, I implode in on myself, absorbing every sound, every smell, sucking in all emotions. Time goes screwy, slowing down to the speed of a snail, every movement slow and labored as though underwater.

In the split-second before I lose consciousness, I spread the pieces of this conversation on a mental table and pick through them like a puzzle. First Ackerson, his self-assured expression, his relaxed shoulders…the eager chug of his heartbeat, like a steam engine train with nothing but blue skies and flat horizon in front of him. Doesn't bode well for you when a man who hates you, who would likely prefer you never existed, is pleased for some reason. Earlier he typed something on his data pad, and I recall the scene in hyper-slow motion, deconstructing his finger placements and mapping them out on a mental keyboard: _"Deployment to XQ-526."_

I fit that piece into its spot, and shift to Parangosky. Reputation: check; on the outside, she is as stone cold as they say. But I _feel_ the salty tang of her sweat more than I smell it, and I can almost _see_ her heartbeat drumming in her throat, the kind of heartbeat that soldiers in the field have before ambushing an enemy. The kind when they know the stakes are far too high for failure. And I understand now why she's asking the most inane questions—it isn't that she doesn't know the answers, it's to get a sense of my core character, of the amount of patience I have under unknown and uncontrollable pressure. Why she's bringing up my training on Onyx and using my ID instead of my name—to reset my mind back as a Spartan, not an ONI paper pusher. Why she's asking Skala if I resent Lieutenant Commander Ambrose and the SPARTAN program—to gauge my loyalty to the program, to the UNSC, to humanity.

Maybe I'm picking her apart right now, but she's been doing it to me this entire meeting.

And the last piece, the discussion of how my condition affects me day to day, snaps into place, and the image resolves.

How stupid. How stupid I was to think this was about a cure. This is about activating me for a _mission._ A mission so dangerous the Commander-in-Chief of ONI herself has to deliver the order. A mission so dangerous the man who wants me erased from Gamma Company is assured that it will happen.

Another surge of agony, and the room goes black.


End file.
